


It sticks and burns, but that's alright

by narfiffiftic (maladictive)



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Christmas stuff, Families of Choice, Family, Gen, ok it's also sad apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maladictive/pseuds/narfiffiftic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s all about family with Dick Grayson, even if it’s the sort that makes you bleed, and then love every drop you lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It sticks and burns, but that's alright

**Author's Note:**

> princess-dakota wanted: "I WANT DICK GRAYSON COMING HOME FOR A WARM FAMILY CHRISTMAS AND EVERYONE HAPPY H E C K Y E A H"  
> HAHA yeah I gave it a shot, but it turned out a bit differently than what I originally had in mind.  
> be warned for general ridiculousness, it's like a half fic

Tim’s waiting for him at the gate, which both terrifies him and gets him grinning wide and painful.

His cheeks are a bit sore once he reaches him, from the helpless happiness, from the tightening fear, and he waits for Tim to say something first.

He waits for him to smile.

To hit him. Yell. Walk away.  _Run_ away.

Anything but that calm look, calculated and hidden behind a half smile.

“I… missed you?”

Ok, so he couldn’t keep quiet, but it was clear that he wasn’t going to win, that Tim wanted him to say something first.

“I missed you too, surprisingly.”

“ _Rude.”_

“You could have contacted me.”

“Funny how being  _undercover_  works, huh?” Dick snorts, “Can’t call, can’t text, I could only send head kisses.”

“Head kisses?”

“Like, I imagined them, because if a bodyguard starts air-kissing into the void, it’d look weird.”

Tim snickers a bit, and punches Dick’s shoulder. “I’m kidding you know, it’s fine.”

“NO, NO, I brought you a souvenir.”

“You did?” Tim seems utterly uninterested, what kind of souvenir could you get if you’re tied to a despot dictator for a month, guarding his lying, thieving ass for intel?

“Yeah, look, I’m alive!”

Tim huffs and stomps away, smashing his boots into the snow. Dick sees him biting back a grin though, and feels a bit of a burden lift from his shoulders. 

He follows his brother inside, and waits for Alfred to show up, and take him to wherever Bruce isn’t.

-

_I’m alive._

_-_

“Master Dick.”

Alfred’s smile and his gentle hands on his face, his hug (Alfred avoids the wound in Dick’s side, because he knows it’s there, Dick can’t hide it from Alfred) is proof that everything’s going to be fine.

It’s also a bit of the old home that he remembers, from so long ago, when he’d walk into a kitchen with a busted lip bleeding everywhere (before the ‘no capes upstairs’ rule) and his arm in a makeshift sling.

Back when he felt like the world still listened to him.

-

“ _DAMIAN!"_  Dick stares at the reddened bandages on his brother’s small shoulder, Damian himself looks sick, tired, worn.

He goes to sit by him on the bed, forces Damian to close his book and look at him.

“I’m fine, you fool, move over.”

“You don’t look too fine.”

“It’s just a scratch.”

Dick tries to get a look at Damian’s shoulder, where the bandages need changing and the skin definitely needs kissing.

Damian shoves him away.

“Fine, fine, just get Alfred to take a look at it, all right?” Dick moves a bit, giving him more room. Damian sighs.

“He ‘takes a look at it’ incessantly, and I said that I’m fine, so I’m fine.”

Dick believes him. This isn’t a kid to play around, and he’s always known Damian to be honest.

Not always truthful, or straightforward, but honest.

In his own proud mind, Damian’s fine.

Dick can’t argue with that. He’ll talk to Bruce and Alfred later, about this.

“How did the mission go?”

“Fine.”

Damian gives him a look, and Dick leans back against the headboard, pretends not to notice that Damian’s trying to smell him.

He’s breathing too deeply, too quickly, and Dick wonders how long a month is to a ten year old.

“I’m here, at least.”

-

_I’m home._

_-_

He kisses Cass right smack on the nose when he finds her, and tries to ignore that once upon a time they all would have been in one spot (everyone), waiting for him to arrive.

“You’re home.”

“I am.”

He sees her shift, and grins, closing his eyes and leaning forward.

The mouth on his chin is the nicest thing he’s felt in so long.

“I missed you the most, you’re my favorite, and I hope they hear me.”

He can hear Tim groan, from the living room. 

Cass smiles a bit, and raises one eyebrow in a bit of a teasing way.

“Yeah, yeah I get it, where’s old Quasimodo?”

“In his bell-tower, of course.”

-

Some tower.

Dick goes down the stairs as naturally as possible, and it still sucks. His wound is acting up, it hurts and he thinks he can hide it. Maybe even from Bruce.

“Let me see.”

Ok, maybe not from Bruce. 

“Hello, good to see you, love the haircut, or is that cowl hair?” Dick can go on and on, but it seems like Bruce gets it.

“How are... you?”

“I am… fine?” Dick mocks. Bruce doesn’t get it.

“That’s been said."

“ARE YOU SPYING?”

Bruce freezes, and then goes back to his files.

At least he forgot about the—-

“Get on the cot.”

Dick doesn’t move.

“ _Get—“_

_“I’M GETTING ON THE COT."_

_-_

Christmas Eve is spent against Tim’s knees, in front of the fire; watching Damian and Titus scuffle in the corner, and picking on Cass’s beloved reindeer sweater.

It’s lovely, and sweet, and everyone’s getting along and talking to him.

Even Bruce is here, forgetting the Bat for one night (he won’t be here Christmas day), and struggling with cookies and crumbs.

Tim’s carding his fingers through Dick’s hair, Cass is  _home,_ she’s with them again, and Damian’s remembering him.

There’s no other way to explain it.

It’s heartbreaking, Damian’s watching Dick like he’s memorizing him, just in case he leaves again.

It makes him feel treasured, wanted, and ashamed of it.

He’s okay with that.

If it means that Damian cares, then he wants it.

-

He sneaks out at midnight; and he doesn’t feel a bit guilty for it.

Tradition is tradition.

-

He’s half way through shoving the bag of groceries through the ugly, broken window before he’s caught.

“You idiot.”

“You’re the idiot, this is a terrible way to guard your butt.”

“ _I’m_ hiding in plain sight, what are  _you_  doing?”

Dick pauses, a bit lost for words. This is going well. 

“I’m spreading cheer.”

“Right, of course.”

There’s silence.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“No.”

Dick sighs, and gives a carton of milk one last shove, and it falls into the stuck window, and onto the floor inside.

“It’s a mess in there, not that I really care, but I thought we could… eat out.”

Dick nearly cries, because  _this—_

This is the final piece of what he wanted to come home to.

It’s not perfect.

It’s so not perfect it cuts, and burns, and then it sticks to the roof of his mouth, this family that he found.

But he loves it. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [It's over on tumblr too, ](http://maladictive.tumblr.com/post/71379958570/it-sticks-and-burns-but-thats-alright)where I had a prompt thingy, I'll put up the others later sigh  
> 


End file.
